


The Golden Rule

by Aerlalaith



Series: Scion of Stars [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fluff, Castiel in the Bunker, Dogs, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Kid Fic, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Overprotective, Overprotective Castiel, Overprotective Dean Winchester, Parent Castiel, Parent Dean Winchester, School, Timestamp, Uncle Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7402141
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aerlalaith/pseuds/Aerlalaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first day of school is fast approaching. Dean isn't handling it too well.</p>
<p>(Timestamp in the Scion of Stars 'verse)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Golden Rule

“Shit, man,” Dean said, as the low light of a car’s headlights swept past.  “That’s the second time the cops have been around. We’re going to have to make this quick.” He crouched down into the shadow of the building behind him, the brick scraping through the thin material of his shirt. He tensed a little when a hand dropped onto his shoulder, then relaxed as he recognized the touch.   
   
Castiel squeezed his shoulder. “Come on.”  
   
“Yeah, okay.” Dean creaked to his feet. He rubbed the small of his back, wincing, as Castiel gestured towards the window directly above Dean’s head. Dean eyed it skeptically.  
   
“Seriously?”  
   
“This one opens directly into the classroom.”  
   
“So?”  
   
Castiel frowned. “This is the classroom we want.”  
   
“Yeah, I got that, Cas. I don’t get why we can’t just go through the door.”  
   
The frowned deepened. “You said that there was an alarm system in place for the doors.”  
   
Dean raked his fingers through his hair, letting out a short breath. It was on the tip of his tongue to say it, _just mojo it, then_ , but, catching a glimpse of Castiel’s face, mouth taut, eyebrows knit together, he held his peace.  
   
It wasn’t Cas’s fault that he’d given up a sizeable portion of his remaining grace to Crowley’s feathers—well, it _was_ , technically, Dean supposed, but he hadn’t had much choice. It certainly wasn’t Cas’s fault that he was drained from fighting off the curse of the Egyptian mummy that’d been haunting the Chicago Field Museum up until last Wednesday, though. That was purely bad luck on their part.  
   
They were just going to have to do this the old fashioned way.  
   
“Give me that,” Dean sighed, holding out his hand. Wordlessly, Castiel handed over the crowbar, and Dean took it in a firm grip, hefting it slightly, feeling the familiar weight of the iron in his hand. “You know,” he said conversationally, as he stuck it under the windowpane and began to pry the window open, “the reason Sam and I started wearing the Fed suits all the time was so we wouldn’t have to go to the trouble of breaking into people’s houses?”  
   
Castiel leaned against the side of the wall, watching Dean work. There was some faint light from a streetlight several feet away, and it illuminated his forehead and a portion of his right cheek, but the rest of his face was in shadow. Still, Dean could very well imagine what he looked like: lips pursed, still that damnable crease between his eyes. “This isn’t a house,” he said. “It’s a school.”  
   
“No one likes a smartass,” Dean told him, as the windowpane finally lifted. He indicated with the crowbar. “Ladies first?”  
   
“I’m not a lady.”  
   
Dean manfully held back a leer. “I am very well aware of that.”  
   
“You have an interesting interpretation of chivalry.”  
   
“Cas, just get your ass up there before the cops drive around again.”  
   
With a much put-upon exhale, Castiel stepped away from his shadowed corner and reached for the edges of the windowsill. Though Dean suspected that Cas, still preternaturally strong despite his weakened grace, didn’t really need a boost, Dean gave him one anyway, just to make himself feel useful. There was some scrabbling, a thump, and then the sound of muffled cursing.  
   
“You okay?” Dean called, trying to keep his voice down. He could hear what sounded like something heavy being dragged across the floor. A moment later, Castiel’s face appeared in the window, hair mussed, mouth set in what Dean would have called, on any other person, a pout.  
   
“The floor was further away than expected.”  
   
“Poor baby.”  
   
Castiel’s expression twisted into a scowl. “If you are going to mock me, I will leave you down there for the police to find.”  
   
Despite his words, he extended his hand.  
   
“No need to be a dick.” Dean grabbed the proffered limb, grunting as he hoisted himself up and through the window with Castiel’s help. He came to rest on the desk Castiel had moved to stand on, and patted Castiel’s cheek. “I knew you couldn’t have been hurt too bad,” he said, winking. “Big, strong angel like you.”  
   
Castiel looked like he was seriously considering biting him. Dean grinned.  
   
In response, Castiel huffed, “Come on,” and jumped lightly off the desk.  
   
Still grinning, Dean slipped off the desk as well. Hands on his hips, he took a moment to survey the classroom. With the lights on, Dean knew everything would be brightly colored, almost to the point of nausea. In the darkness however, all he could really make out were the cutouts of letters and numbers all over the walls, a small, carpeted area surrounded by a few bookshelves, and several little tables and chairs, as well as one big desk at the front of the room.  
   
“Looks better in the daytime,” he commented.  
   
Castiel murmured his agreement. He now had his knife out and was crouched next to one of the tables, notching something into the base of the table leg. Dean bent down beside him, breath puffing next to his ear.  
   
“Do you want to put sigils on _all_ the tables?”  
   
“Yes,” Castiel replied, not even bothering to look up.  
   
“Dude, that’s going to take forever.”  
   
Castiel stopped carving to fix him with a hard look.  
   
“All right, all right.” Dean held up his hands. “I’ll start with the teacher’s desk.”  
   
“You do that.” Castiel was already on his way to the next little table. He didn’t bother flipping it over, just laid on his back, flashlight between his teeth as he gouged Enochian onto the underside of the wood.  
   
“Watch out for gum,” said Dean.  
   
Castiel paused for a moment to let out a breath and wave at Dean in a shooing motion, before furrowing his brow in renewed concentration, and resuming his task.  
   
Even though he couldn’t see them right now, Dean knew well enough what Castiel’s work looked like: symbols for protection, for purity, even a tricky little combo that functioned as an alarm bell that would call Cas like a shot if it were broken.  
   
Dean stepped over to the teacher’s desk. He started simple, drawing a devil’s trap in sharpie on the underside of the chair, warding symbols on all four legs. He then moved on to a few strategically placed hex bags, and finished off by screwing in a fancy set of replacement drawer knobs—these ones covered in silver paint and, underneath the paint, more sigils.  
   
Dean brushed off his hands, giving the desk a critical once over, before nodding sharply. “I’m gonna put the devil’s trap under the carpet,” he announced.  
   
Castiel popped his head around the doorframe of the classroom. “Do you need help getting the carpet off the floor?”  
   
Over at the reading corner, Dean bent down, prodded the carpet, then rose and gave it an experimental kick. “Nah,” he said. “It’s got a rubber bottom. Comes up easy.”  
   
“Likely for cleaning.”  
   
“How would you know about cleaning? You’re terrible at cleaning.”  
   
Castiel cocked an eyebrow. “I did work at a convenience store once.” His voice was deceptively mild, but Dean still winced.  
   
“Right,” Dean muttered. It was still something of a sore spot between the two of them. More to avoid that awkwardness than anything else, he managed a, “Yes, dear,” that was only partly joking, as he poked at the edges of the carpet.  
   
The corner of Castiel’s mouth quirked up, and Dean ducked his head, the feeling in his chest lightening.  
   
Dean leaned over to roll up the carpet, pushing it against the wall. That done, he pulled out a can of spray paint and began to work on the fanciest devil’s trap in the book.  
   
Finished with whatever he’d been doing to the doorframe, Castiel gave a hum of approval. Then, with a critical look at the adjacent wall, he unstuck the bottom of one of the inspirational reading posters, sliced open his palm with casual efficiency, and began to paint an angel banishing symbol underneath where the poster would hang.  
   
“You going to tell him where you put that thing?” Dean asked, pausing to switch out for another can of spray paint.  
   
“Of course. It wouldn’t be very helpful otherwise.”  
   
Dean gave a grunt of assent. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He fished it out and tapped the screen, squinting at the message. Whatever it was made him huff, and he shoved the phone back into his pocket and resumed painting.  
   
When he finally sprayed the last line on the devil’s trap and unrolled the carpet back on top of it, he leaned back against the radiator, puffing up his cheeks and blowing air out of the side of his mouth. He wiped his forehead and folded his arms in front of his chest, watching Castiel’s sure fingers dip to his bloody palm, then back to the wall, and repeat.  
   
“Hey, Cas?”  
   
“Yes?”  
   
Dean glanced around at the classroom, gaze lingering on the angelic graffiti hidden beneath the tables, the devil’s trap under his feet, the sack of salt cleverly sequestered behind the bag of pipe cleaners in the art closet. He rubbed the back of his neck. “Do you think we might be kind of, uh…” he trailed off, cleared his throat, “going a little bit overboard?”  
   
Castiel blinked up at him. Their eyes met.  
   
“Hmm,” said Castiel. He, too, surveyed the room, head tilted in consideration, before turning back to Dean. “I don’t think so, no.” He gave a satisfied nod, looking around the room again. “This seems like a reasonable level of precaution.”  
   
Dean’s shoulders sagged in what was clearly relief.  
   
“Thank fuck,” he said, coming over to Castiel. “I’m glad you think so, too.” He held out his phone. “Sam’s just being a dick and saying we’re both paranoid.” He scowled at the phone. “It’s two against one, Sammy!” he said, thumbs working viciously as he sent off a text explaining just that.  
   
“Sam does not have children,” Castiel said severely. He dropped the poster back to its former position, and stood decently still while Dean whipped out a cloth and tied it around his hand.  Castiel’s smile flickered in thanks as they gathered their materials and headed over to the desk they’d used to climb through the window.  
   
“Right?” Dean groused, clambering onto the desk first. “Oh, thanks, Cas.” He accepted the crowbar Castiel handed him, and carefully dropped it out the open window onto the ground. “He doesn’t know,” he added, swinging one leg onto the window ledge. “These teachers could be anybody. Or anything.” He began to slide out the window, then paused, turning back to Castiel. “You got this?” he asked, motioning to the desk.  
   
“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said patiently. “I’ll move it back when you’re down.”  
   
“Okay.” As Dean spoke, a bare sliver of his back scraped against the window frame, and then his feet were touching ground. He waited for a minute or so, listening to the grind of desk on floor, before Castiel shimmied out of the window to join him.  
   
“Don’t forget to close it,” Castiel reminded him, as he landed cat-like next to Dean.  
   
“Yeah, yeah.” Dean reached up, just barely on his tiptoes, and managed to grab the window. He pulled it tight with a satisfying clink. Then, for a good measure, pulled out a sharpie and quickly scribbled the Enochian symbols for “break” and “bind” across the base. When he turned around, brushing off his hands and sticking the sharpie back in his pocket, Castiel rewarded him with a full-mouthed kiss.  
   
“Whoa,” said Dean, as they broke apart. He eyed Castiel, who was smiling at him a little, mostly with his eyes, his lips wet. Dean’s eyebrows lifted. “Dude,” he said, “since when does breaking and entering turn you on?”  
   
Castiel rolled his eyes. Pushing past Dean, he made for the car.  
   
   
#  
   
   
Two days later, the dog was in full-fledged lunacy.  
   
As if she sensed that the schedule of her favorite mostly-human was about to change in a way that significantly affected her, she spent a large portion of the morning glued to Isaiah’s side and, when that was not possible, resorted to barking loudly and growling at the bathroom door when Castiel shut it in her face.  
   
“Cheerio wants to go to school, too,” said Isaiah, digging into the eggs Dean handed him. “She’s going to be lonely.”  
   
Dean, who was still privately thrilled every time he heard Isaiah refer to the dog as ‘she’ considering he’d spent several weeks cajoling Isaiah out of referring to the dog as ‘he’, didn’t even have it in him to make up a lie.  
   
(This, it turned out, had been because Isaiah had been operating under some strange child logic wherein all dogs were male. Dean still wasn’t sure what had caused it, but he had an inkling that it had something to do with Sam. To this day Isaiah continued to believe that all cars were gendered female, but Dean was less concerned with that one.)  
   
“Yeah,” he said honestly. “She’ll be a little sad, but that’s just because she’s missing you.”  
   
Isaiah stuck out his lower lip. He looked up from his eggs at Dean. “If she’s going to be sad, maybe I should stay home.”  
   
“Nah,” said Sam, before Dean could open his mouth to agree with Isaiah’s line of thinking. He ruffled Isaiah’s hair as he passed him on the way to the stove. Isaiah, who enjoyed having his hair touched just about as much as his uncle had at his age—and still did, to be fair—glared at him.  
   
“Uncle Sammy,” he whined.  
   
“She’ll miss you,” Sam continued, sliding his plate onto the table and taking a seat, “but we’ll make sure to keep her company. You wouldn’t want to miss your first day, would you?”  
   
His last words held a note of steel, and were clearly directed at Dean, who shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  
   
“I guess not,” said Isaiah, dubiously. He picked up his fork again as Castiel slouched into the room.  
   
“Morning, Cas,” Dean said, while at the same time, Isaiah demanded,  
   
“Daddy, are you going to take care of Cheerio? Are you going to make sure she’s not lonely while I’m at school?”  
   
Castiel, looking rather battered by the sudden barrage of questions, swayed a little in place. He blinked slowly at his offspring, then over at Dean, who was studiously avoiding his gaze, and at Sam, who was nodding vigorously behind Isaiah’s back.  
   
Castiel reached for the coffee pot. He poured himself a full mug and took a long sip.  
   
“Of course,” he said, voice still gravelly from sleep. “We will take care of Cheerio while you are at—while you are at school.”  
   
Dean glanced up quickly, with something akin to betrayal.  
   
“See?” said Sam.  
   
Dean tried not to grind his teeth too obviously. Castiel, who had somehow moved to stand behind him, let one hand rest on the back of Dean’s neck. Dean exhaled.  
   
“Isaiah,” Castiel said quietly, “did you get your lunch?”  
   
Isaiah shook his head. “I don’t have a lunch.”  
   
Isaiah didn’t mean anything by it, Dean knew. As far as he was concerned, he _didn’t_ have a lunch—mostly because he’d never had to think about packing one before. All the same, something seized in Dean’s chest. “Don’t say that, kiddo,” he said, trying on a smile. “You’ve got a lunch.” Almost inadvertently, his eyes flickered over to Sam, then back to Isaiah. “I packed it for you.”  
   
Over at the other end of the table, Sam swallowed, flashing Dean a look that Dean pretended he didn’t see. Still behind him, Castiel squeezed the back of his neck just for a second.  
   
Completely oblivious to the exchange, Isaiah just shouted, “Okay!” and hopped off his chair, upsetting his glass of milk in the process, and causing it to spill all over the table and the floor.  
   
Cheerio barked and made a beeline for Isaiah’s chair immediately, where she began lapping up the puddle.  
   
Dean rubbed his temples. Sam snorted.  
   
“Oops,” said Isaiah, glancing guiltily up at the three of them.  
   
Castiel just sighed. “Go get the rag,” he said, like Isaiah even needed the reminder.  
   
While Isaiah trooped out of the kitchen, Dean shook his head. “We’re definitely going to have to pay for a broken window this year,” he predicted.  
   
“One?” Sam scoffed, rolling his shoulders. He pushed his plate away. “Probably like, five.”  
   
“Five?” Castiel frowned. “That’s going too far, Sam. Isaiah’s not _that_ clumsy.” He tilted his head. “Maybe three.”  
   
“Want to bet?”  
   
“We are not betting on this,” said Dean. “Jesus.”  
   
“I got the rag, Daddy,” Isaiah announced, sliding back into the room on his socks. Dean caught him just before he would’ve crashed into the table. Isaiah turned to him. “Oh, Daddy Dean, I spilled the soap again when I got the rag but I cleaned it up, promise.”  
   
“Wonderful,” Dean said, resolutely ignoring how Sam had turned away to hide his laughter. “Great job, kiddo.”  
   
Isaiah beamed.  
   
After the mess had been dealt with, Isaiah’s backpack had been double and then triple checked for all off his new school supplies, and his lunch had been retrieved, Dean and Castiel corralled Isaiah out of the bunker and into the car. There was a brief holdup, wherein Isaiah had to give a lengthy and verbose goodbye to Cheerio, which had Sam listening intently with a misty expression, and Dean checking his watch.  
   
“…and when I get back we can play fetch and I’ll give you ten cookies and then we can go to the park with Uncle Sammy and then—”  
   
“Isaiah,” Castiel said, voice firm. “We’re going to be late.”  
   
Isaiah let out a very reluctant sigh, and stood to give the dog one last pat before padding over to the open car door. He scrambled into the back seat while Castiel slid into the front passenger side.  
   
“Ready?” Dean asked, turning around to make sure Isaiah’s seat belt was fastened. When Isaiah gave him a thumbs up, Dean’s heart made a little flip-flop. He forced a smile and, turning back around, stepped on the gas.  
   
They had chosen the elementary school in Smith Center rather than the one in Lebanon for a couple reasons, the most important being the lack of traumatizing memories for Isaiah, but also its presence in a comparatively larger town—one that wasn’t much further away from the bunker than Lebanon itself.  
   
The commute therefore, was not unreasonable, though today Dean was finding the twenty minutes both overlong and too short.  
   
They pulled up to the sidewalk, and Dean parked the car across the street from a familiar looking one-story building.  
   
“Looks like a brick prison,” he muttered, though softly enough that Isaiah wouldn't hear him.  
   
Isaiah, who seemed to have forgotten his sadness over leaving the dog in favor of excitement for his first day of school, nearly bounced his way across the street before Castiel managed to grab his hand. Reluctantly, Dean got out of the car as well.  
   
“I suppose we take the front door this time,” Castiel mused, holding tightly while Isaiah tugged at him.  
   
“What else would we take? The window?”  
   
“No,” said Castiel, “I don’t think that would be a good idea in the daytime—”  
   
“Cas, I was joking—”  
   
“Daddy, come _on_.” Isaiah stomped his foot. “We’re gonna be _late_.”  
   
“Isaiah, don’t pull at me. Be patient.”  
   
Isaiah scowled at him, but subsided. After another moment of checking to make sure they had everything, Castiel began to walk towards the building, following the throng of chattering children and not a few concerned parents.  
   
Dean felt more awkward with every step he took as they crossed the threshold. “Are we supposed to be here?”  
   
“Yes, Dean,” Castiel said patiently, leading them unerringly to the kindergarten classroom. “We’re permitted to drop him off here on the first day.”  
   
“If you say so, Cas,” Dean said, still eyeing their surroundings uneasily. Had his dad ever dropped him off like this for his or Sammy’s first day? Dean didn’t think so, though he has a vague memory of taking _Sam_ to his first kindergarten class and making sure he was all set up.  
   
Castiel gave him a pointed look as they stopped in front of the appropriate door. “You wouldn’t have wanted to leave him on the front steps, would you?”  
   
Dean bristled. “Of course not!”  
   
“Well, then.” Castiel raised an eyebrow. Dean frowned a little.  
   
“Ah! You made it.” A smiling woman, probably in her mid to late forties, came up to them from inside the classroom. She wore a bright yellow dress and held her steel grey curls back with an army of bobby pins. She smiled at Dean and Castiel. “I definitely remember you two—Dean and Jimmy!”  
   
Isaiah tilted his head. “Daddy’s name isn’t Jimmy,” he said, before Dean could stop him. “It’s—”  
   
“I apologize,” Castiel said quickly, a look of only slight panic on his face. “At home I—usually go by my middle name.” His expression brightened. “Or a ‘nick’ name., as it were.”  
   
Jesus Christ. He was using air quotes again. Dean sighed.  
   
“You can call me ‘Cas’ if you wish,” Castiel finished, looking quite proud.  
   
The woman blinked at him, slightly taken aback. Then she seemed to shake herself. “All right,” she said, extending her hand. “Nice to meet you again, Cas.”  
   
“Likewise,” Cas said solemnly.  
   
The woman bent down to Isaiah’s level. “And you must be Isaiah,” she said. “My name is Mrs. Schaffer. I’m going to be your kindergarten teacher this year. Do you want to come see the classroom?”  
   
Isaiah regarded her for a long moment, and then promptly turned around and hid his face in Castiel’s side.  
   
“Oh dear,” said Mrs. Schaffer, as Castiel flushed and Dean took an automatic step forward. “Another shy one.”  
   
“Isaiah,” Castiel chided. He pried him off his side and knelt down. “Isaiah, what’s wrong? Don’t you want to go to school?”  
   
Isaiah shook his head, tears starting to gather in his eyes, an instant turnaround from only a minute ago. Cas glanced up at Dean in a wordless plea, and Dean was there.  
   
“Hey, buddy,” he said, dropping to his knees. “What’s wrong, huh? I thought you were going to have a great time.”  
   
Isaiah sniffled.  
   
“No, no,” Dean said. He put a hand on Isaiah’s shoulder and gave him a squeeze. “Listen, you were so excited to go to school today, remember? You’re gonna do a bunch of cool crafts and, and make lots of new friends, remember?”  
   
Isaiah bit his lip. Dean nodded encouragingly.  
   
“It’s okay to be nervous,” he said. He allowed a small smile to slip out. “I’m a little nervous too.” Isaiah blinked at him, mouth still trembling, and Dean nodded. “Really,” he said. “But even if you’re nervous, kiddo, that doesn’t mean that you shouldn’t go.”  
   
“Isaiah,” Castiel said softly. He turned his son around so that they were facing each other and spoke again, this time in Enochian. Dean took that as his cue to stand up, knees popping.  
   
Isaiah was listening to what Castiel had to say, foot scuffing on the floor once or twice. Castiel continued to speak a stream of Enochian, wiping the tears off Isaiah’s cheeks, brushing back his hair.  
   
Mrs. Schaffer sidled over to him. “Is that Russian?” she asked, as Isaiah responded hesitantly to Castiel’s gentle probing.  
   
“Uh,” Dean said. He cleared his throat. “Yes. Yes it is.”  
   
“Oh. Do you speak Russian at home?”  
   
“N—not really. No.”  
   
He was spared further questioning by Castiel rising to his feet. He placed two hands on Isaiah’s shoulders, spun him around, and gave him a nudge towards the classroom door. “He’s ready now,” he said. He looked down, clucking his son under the chin with two fingers. “Remember, Isaiah, we’ll pick you up at three.” He stepped back and, like she sensed the perfect moment, Mrs. Schaffer extended her hand.  
   
“May I show you where to put your lunch box?” she asked.  
   
Isaiah didn’t exactly answer her, but he did take her hand and allow her to lead him into the classroom, which was answer enough.  
   
And then they were going…going…gone.  
   
Dean swallowed hard around the sudden tightness in his throat, not even protesting as Castiel reached for his hand. They stood there in front of the doorway for a moment, ignoring the jostle of other parents and students before, by some mutual agreement, they began to walk towards the exit.  
   
“I’m surprised she remembered our names,” Castiel said as they reached the car. He pulled open the door and slid inside, strapping himself into the front seat.  
   
Dean snorted, fumbling with the keys. “How many kids with two dads do you think she’s got to keep track of?”  
   
Castiel’s voice was hesitant. “You don’t think that Isaiah will be ostracized for that, do you? For us?”  
   
Dean pressed his lips together. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. The thought had crossed his mind once or twice. It was a small town, he knew that shit happened sometimes. “Hopefully not. If he does, we’ll deal with it.”  
   
“How?”  
   
“Hex bags,” Dean said, before he could stop himself.  
   
To his utter surprise, Castiel laughed. Dean stared at him. “It’s not—I don’t approve,” Castiel said, as Dean’s eyebrows inched towards his hairline. “But,” he shrugged, “the notion _is_ satisfying.”  
   
“You’re as bloodthirsty as the rest of us,” Dean said, pulling away from the curb. Castiel didn’t even bother to protest. He just pressed his face to the window as they drove slowly up the street. He only frowned when Dean stopped to park again, barely a block away from where they had started.  
   
“Dean?”  
   
Dean was already getting out of the car. “C’mon, Cas,” he said. “Research time.”  
   
“I don’t understand.”  
   
“You don’t understand research?”  
   
“No.” Castiel caught Dean’s arm and nodded to the storefront behind them. “I don’t understand why we’ve stopped here.”  
   
Dean’s eyes were full of mischief. “Cas,” he said, “we can research cases anywhere. The, uh,” he glanced at the store, “Brown Bean Café has just as good wifi as the bunker does.” He patted the laptop bag at his side. “And if it just so happens to be a block away from the school, well…” he lifted his shoulders.  
   
Castiel’s eyes widened in realization. “Sam said we shouldn’t hover,” he reminded Dean, even as he followed him into the coffee shop.  
   
“Who’s hovering? We’re not hovering. Hovering would be staying _in_ the classroom. We’re not even on the same street.”  
   
“I suppose.”  
   
“Besides,” Dean threw over his shoulder as he went up to examine the menu. He dropped the laptop bag on one of the tables. “Sam’s not here, is he?”  
   
Castiel crossed his arms, though to Dean, who knew him well, the amused gleam in his eyes gave him away. “I see your point,” he said finally.  
   
Dean grinned at him. “Want a coffee, Cas?”  
   
Castiel fixed him with a look, and then he sat down in one of the plush chairs. “Thank you, Dean,” he said, pulling the abandoned laptop bag towards himself. “I would like a coffee.”  
   
   
   
 


End file.
